


Two Reflections Into One

by violent_ends



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Porn, Episode Related, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode AU: s04e06 Orgy Pants to Work, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22833919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violent_ends/pseuds/violent_ends
Summary: The double take Lucifer’s head does as she joins him and Ella in the water will never leave her mind. Confusion turns to lust in a matter of seconds, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, his mouth parted around a smug comment that doesn’t make it out but stays stuck in his throat, choking him.“Detective…” is all he manages to say, quietly,shyly, after he had the nerve to strip right in front of her, purposefully ignoring or downrightobliviousto what he does to her, and the taste of payback isdelicious.[4x06 Orgy Pants to Work AU]
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 65
Kudos: 438





	Two Reflections Into One

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who are following my established Deckerstar smut series, this of course isn’t a part of that, since it’s an AU taking place during the show. The title is from _Mirrors_ by Justin Timberlake, and the story is based on a prompt by venividivictorious. Special thanks to matchstick_dolly (happy birthday!), elleflies and MoanDiary for throwing in ideas on how to make this work ❤
> 
> Sugar prompt #21 masturbation + Spice prompt #14 voyeurism (sort of)

_Worth it_, Chloe thinks as she walks toward the overcrowded hot tub, a moment so ridiculously similar to one she has already lived. No filming crew this time, but an uncountable number of people as naked as her, something that should make her feel more at ease than showing her breasts while surrounded by clothed men and women. But she was younger back then, bolder, empowered by the reactions she knew her body would elicit. She’s older now, and she’s had a child, and Ella has this gorgeous body she had no idea about – seriously, has that always been hiding under those cute funny T-shirts without anyone noticing?

Still, the easy, relaxed vibe of the colony is reassuring, and if way older people than her are comfortable in their own skin, Chloe can be too. Because, again, _worth it_.

The double take Lucifer’s head does as she joins him and Ella in the water will never leave her mind. Confusion turns to lust in a matter of seconds, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, his mouth parted around a smug comment that doesn’t make it out but stays stuck in his throat, choking him.

“Detective…” is all he manages to say, quietly, _shyly_, after he had the nerve to strip right in front of her, purposefully ignoring or downright _oblivious_ to what he does to her, and the taste of payback is _delicious_.

“Yes, girl!” Ella erupts enthusiastically, “I'm so happy you decided to join the party, Chlo! Isn’t this _awesome_?”

“I'm starting to get the appeal, yes," Chloe replies, taking longer than necessary to lower herself into the water.

Lucifer looks at her, _all of her_, from head to toe until her body disappears from view under the bubbles, but not quite, not really, not enough for him to ignore it. Then he keeps staring at her as she takes over the playful interrogation, his eyes darker, hooded.

She is sitting right next to him, their shoulders not touching but close, _so_ close. Chloe is a professional, and the setting really doesn’t do it for her with all these strangers around, so it’s easier than expected to focus on Julian and push Lucifer’s nakedness in the back of her mind. But Lucifer is not a professional. Lucifer has the attention span of a 5-year-old on a normal day. And Chloe knows he won’t be able to focus on anything else but _her_ now.

So, so worth it.

She can feel him squirm, moving restlessly, and she doesn’t even have to look down to know why. He'll have to figure out a way to calm himself down if he wants to get out of the water without drawing attention to it (not that he would normally care, but sexual arousal seems a big no-no in such an environment), and Chloe feels so powerful she wishes she could high five herself.

It’s all extremely petty and extremely meaningless considering where they’re at right now, but hell if it isn’t a boost to her confidence. He’s the Devil, a master of pleasure and debauchery since the beginning of time, now spending his days throwing orgies with the very first woman to walk the Earth; but here, in this pool, boring Detective Nobody can reduce him to a state of stunned, horny silence.

Knowing he wants her that way, thinks about her that way, makes something hot and angry twist in her belly, a desire tainted with frustration and regret. Back when they barely knew each other, he didn’t even bat an eye at her nakedness as the towel fell from her body, dripping water on the hardwood from the shower: no, he was all sarcasm and confidence, so in control of his emotions. Well, not anymore, it seems, but the victory is quickly turning hollow and sour on her tongue.

Yet it’s a victory nonetheless, so Chloe pushes it all down and gets the job done, lingering in the pool for a while to ask Julian a few more questions before a couple of clothed officers, instructed by her beforehand, step in to drag him out of the water and have him dressed and cuffed.

And still, Chloe takes her time. “This is fun, isn’t it?” she pipes up once she’s left alone with Lucifer and Ella, after the two women at Julian’s side scurry away in shock at the turn of events.

“_So_ much fun,” Ella giggles, leaning back against the edge of the pool with a sigh before closing her eyes.

“Isn’t it, Lucifer?” Chloe doubles down, turning slightly to look at him, her elbow now resting outside to support her head.

Lucifer gives her a glare that is half a plea, a request for mercy, a quiet appeal for her to stop teasing him, but why _the hell_ should she?

“A real blast, Detective. Just peachy. Truly, I'm glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Then, he seems to find it in himself to tease her back, although without much heart in it, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Chloe shrugs. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before. Well, sort of. Don’t look so surprised.”

He replies in the form of a tight smile, the one he gives to mask how _not_ happy he is with whatever is going on. Chloe considers herself satisfied and stands up to leave, making sure to give him a perfect view of her rear as she does.

“Come on guys, time to go!” she calls over her shoulder. When she hears Lucifer tell Ella, “You go ahead, Miss Lopez, I'll catch up with you shortly”, she can’t help the grin that spreads across her face.

The bitterness in her mouth is so fulfilling that it might as well be honey.

*

It all starts to seem _less_ worth it once it’s clear that they won’t make it back to the city if not in the dead of night and with a massive traffic-induced headache. Thanks to an accident on the freeway, a long line of cars stretches out before hers, with no end in sight to the awkwardness of the ride back home in Lucifer and Ella’s company. Ella is doing her best to fill the silence, commenting on her current Internet search into other nudist colonies she might be interested in joining, but Lucifer is a bundle of nervous energy on the passenger seat, one leg tapping madly against the floor of the car.

“This is unacceptable," he mutters, his jaw tense. “I _refuse_ to be stuck inside this tin can for hours just because some bloody idiot couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to the road. We're getting out of here.”

Chloe shares his desire to go home as soon as possible, but she has to roll her eyes at the decisiveness of his statement. “And how do you suggest we do that, Lucifer? Can you get this car to magically fly, by any chance?”

He stares at her for a moment with a look that seems to say “Watch me", but then he takes his phone out of his pocket and replies, “Just take the next exit when you reach it, Detective, and I'll book a hotel for the night.”

“Oh, nice!” Ella bounces on the backseat, looking up from the screen of her own phone, “Let’s turn this into a proper vacation!”

Chloe glares at her from the rearview mirror. “What about Julian? We have to interrogate him and finalize the arrest.”

“The officers' car will take just as long as we would to reach the precinct,” Lucifer oh-so-helpfully informs her, already busy scrolling with his thumb to (she assumes) settle on a place to book. “Call them and have them keep him in a holding cell for the night, and we’ll get to it in the morning.”

He’s right. Chloe hates that he’s right. She looks ahead and realizes the exit isn’t that far, either.

“_Fine_,” she concludes, before picking up her phone to make the call, since they’re currently not moving at all.

The hotel they check into is a big cabin surrounded by nature, much like the colony itself. Their assigned rooms are all on the same floor and along the same hallway, in a row next to one another: Ella's, Lucifer’s, Chloe’s. After wishing the others goodnight, Chloe steps into hers, locks the door behind her and leans her back against it, sighing deeply. It’s been a long, long day.

With a suspect to take care of, they had to leave the colony in a haste, just putting their clothes back on after drying themselves off. The chlorine from the pool still lingers on her skin, both the smell and the feel of it, so Chloe decides to take a shower before finally going to sleep.

Under the spray, her mind starts to wander, relaxed and more pliant to reveries as the tension of the day flows away down the drain. There are planes of smooth, hard muscle under her closed eyelids, a sculpted chest, a pair of broad shoulders, a toned belly, the V of a slim waist leading south where she couldn’t help but stare, _again_, as always. The cut of his jaw, the lines of his arms, the curves of his ridiculously firm cheeks as he walked away with that childishly excited bounce in his step – the bastard, the insufferable tease that he is, mocking her with what she can’t have.

And it’s her fault that she can’t have it, because she ran, because she betrayed him, because what they had is now reduced to this fragile little excuse for a friendship, this pathetic tiptoeing around each other as they both pretend that everything is fine, absolutely _fine_ after she almost poisoned him and he almost died of a gunshot wound because despite it all, and regardless of what it means, she is his weakness.

And he is hers.

Chloe skims a hand down her belly, legs already parted to welcome her own touch, but reconsiders. The truth is, she has no right to want him. And if she can’t stop herself from wanting him, at least she can stop herself from acting on it.

She steps out of the shower and pulls on the white hotel robe she left folded on the toilet lid. Her need unsatisfied, she ties the knot at her waist with shaky fingers, frustrated with herself and her infuriating tendency to overthink everything, managing to ruin with guilt even something as simple as masturbating. She can’t even give herself that now, not without feeling ashamed of her own lust. Wonderful.

After quickly drying her hair with the hairdryer of the hotel and tying it up into a bun, Chloe walks out of the bathroom and sits on the bed, her back against the wood headboard. She has no pyjama with her, of course, so she’ll either sleep like this or turn up the heating and slide under the covers naked. But as drained as she feels, she’s actually more alert than ever, pulsing with this itch she cannot scratch. She drums her fingers on the fabric covering her upper thigh, wondering if she should turn on the TV on the opposite wall and watch something random until she starts to feel sleepy.

Then she hears a sound, and the idea of sleeping immediately flies out of her mind.

Her name.

Not her title, her _name_.

Her name in Lucifer’s voice.

His bed must be on the other side of the same wall, she realizes, so if she’s hearing him, it probably means that he’s sitting in the same position as her, a mirror image with a barrier in between, preventing her from seeing her reflection. Initially, Chloe assumes he’s calling her, whispering in the dark to try and tell her something, a big secret he doesn’t have the courage to reveal face to face.

She turns toward the wall and presses her palm flat against it, her heart beating in her chest, her mouth slowly opening to answer. But then, Lucifer moans, long and low and so deep in his throat that the wall almost vibrates with it, sending shockwaves through the skin of her palm.

“_Chloe,_” she hears again, followed by a desperate, keening noise that shoots right through her, her thighs rubbing together involuntarily.

Lucifer is touching himself. On the other side of the wall. Thinking about _her_.

Not Eve. Not the aquarium and the conch shell and the Shape of Water-inspired sex. Not the molten chocolate. Not the circus acrobats.

_Her_. Just her. Just Chloe with her too tight ponytail lowering herself in a pool next to him, all business and no fun. Just Chloe with her stretch marks and the beginning of wrinkles on the sides of her eyes. Just Chloe, who isn’t doe-eyed and sensual unless she really puts her mind to it, who doesn’t wear dresses and heels on a daily basis, who probably wouldn’t be up for even half the things Eve enjoys doing with him.

Tonight, at least tonight, the Devil burns for _her_, and fuck it, it’s all the permission she needs.

Chloe unties the knot of her robe, leans her temple against the wall and closes her eyes.

*

Lucifer gets rid of his clothes as soon as the door of the room is shut behind him. In the pool, he had to pull all of his best tricks to get Big Ben to cooperate: thoughts of Mum rutting against dancing patrons at Lux, Charlotte (but for him, somehow still Mum) kissing him, Amenadiel having sex, hellish tortures with Justin Bieber singing in the background, being forced to wear Hawaiian print T-shirts or hold a baby for more than five seconds. All of his best hits until it worked.

Still, the image of a very naked Detective came back to him later in the car, keeping him half-hard and on edge, with the little minx right there next to him behaving as if she didn’t know what she did to him. Oh, he knows that she knows, his Hot Tub High School star acting out a whole new sequel in front of his eyes, for _him_. For him to realize what he already knows. For him to acknowledge what he can’t afford to dwell on.

That he wants her. That he desires her. That mending their friendship did nothing to quench the flame of his lust for her, a fire reduced to embers but that is there, is _there_ despite the fact that he already has everything: a job he likes, a girlfriend who adores him, a life complete and full of excitement _precisely_ the way he had intended it to be at the very start before the Detective came along, before he developed this pesky inconvenience called _feelings_.

What was she trying to do back there? Punish him? Mock him? Get back at him for that diagram he had tried to draw back at the precinct, or for how detailed the tales of his sexcapades are?

Well, whatever the case, the result is the same: him jerking himself off in the shower as fast as he can, without even _enjoying_ it, just to take the pressure off; one hand tight and painful around his cock as the other pinches one of his nipples, water dripping from his hair and into his eyes as he stands slumped against the shower wall, shaking.

It’s not the first time he does this with her in mind, of course: even not counting his obsessive Hot Tub High School rewatches, that period of time when something was blossoming between them was a very dense one in the wanking department. But after Vegas, no more. After Pierce, no more. Involuntary wet dreams notwithstanding, of course.

She will disappear from his mind as soon as he comes, he’s sure of it; she just took him by surprise, that’s all. He will get off and forget about it, about _her_ sitting wet and naked next to him, about her breasts and her legs and the hollow of her throat, about her perfect arse directly in front of his face as she stood up and turned away. He will stop thinking about taking her by the hips to sit her on the edge of the pool and sink into her, his tongue between her folds right then and there in front of _everyone_, her hands fisted in his hair as she moans his name and asks for more, more, _more_.

He comes to the idea of doing this to her, of making her fall apart with his face between her thighs and her taste on his tongue, and to the thought of _himself_ falling apart like that, helplessly touching himself under the water as he's doing right now, rough and desperate and enslaved by her still, always, even after everything.

But Chloe is still there, even through the aftershocks, even as his breathing slowly goes back to normal, even when he washes himself one last time before stepping out of the shower. Lucifer quickly dries his body and hair with a towel and walks across the room to unceremoniously sprawl on the bed, face down and naked butt in the air, burying a groan of frustration into the pillow.

It’s not enough. Bloody hell, it’s not enough.

He breathes in and out deeply, his chest rising and falling, his hands scratching at his scalp in exasperation. Willing himself to relax, he slowly melts into the mattress, the tension in his muscles easing into a low thrum he can feel pulsing under his skin. Now that he got that quick, dirty fantasy out of his system, his mind betrays him with something slower, more tender, with images of them taking all the time in the world. As if.

Giving in, Lucifer turns to lie on his back and closes his eyes. In his imagination, the Detective- no, _Chloe_ is on top of him, naked, kissing him slow and deep. He traces the contours of his lips with his fingers, remembering the taste of her from the two kisses they actually shared. Two. That’s all he has to go with, aside from the sight of her body. That’s all they managed to give each other before everything fell apart.

He sucks his index and middle finger into his mouth and circles them around a nipple, arching up toward his own touch, pretending it’s her mouth. He’s hard again already, but this time he’ll make it last. Maybe, just maybe, fully surrendering to it will do the trick.

“Chloe,” he sighs, his other hand fisted in the sheets near his hip, but tangling in her hair in the fantasy as she switches to the other nipple, pressing and insistent as she grinds her cunt against his cock to tease him, knowing full well what he really wants from her.

He raises his hand from the bed to rake his own nails down his chest, pretending it’s her as she moves down his body, kissing, licking, biting, claiming. He grips the inside of his thigh harshly to mirror a bruise she’d suck there, and he can feel the sting because she’s _close_, in the room right next to his, her presence allowing him the sensation of pain, the blessing of torture.

And it’s this that makes him moan, the fact that she still does this to him: that he hurts because of her – hell, he almost bled out on the floor of Lux as proof of it – but that at the same time he can’t stay away from her. A masochist, like so many souls down in Hell; a subject begging his queen to make him suffer because pain is the only kind of mark she’ll ever leave on his skin, and blood is the only thing she’ll ever draw from his body, a macabre and twisted mockery of what could be pleasure instead.

He invokes her name again, then finally, finally takes himself in hand, keening desperately at the thought of her mouth around him, warm and tight and welcoming; of her head languidly moving up and down between his legs, taking care of him almost tenderly, without any rush, enjoying the sounds he'd make for her.

He spreads his own wetness up and down his shaft to keep the fantasy going, but it’s not enough, so he lifts his palm to his mouth and licks it shamelessly. When he brings it back down to resume stroking himself, it’s still not as perfect as the real thing would be, but he'll have to make do.

*

Chloe starts at her feet, tracing the arches with her hands, then slowly trailing up the inside of her open legs. She brushes her thumbs next to her knees, massaging the tender skin there, imagining Lucifer’s strong hands doing the same to spread her legs for him possessively, settling between them with a feral look in his eyes. He (she) skims her fingertips up her inner thighs, bypassing where she wants them to dig into her hipbones, pinning her to the bed to do what he wants to her.

On the other side of the wall, Lucifer is making the most delicious noises, taking his sweet time, and she revels in it, basking in the pride she feels at the thought of having reduced him to such a desperate mess. Chloe wonders what he’s imagining, but it distracts her, so she focuses back on herself and borrows the sounds she’s hearing to mix them with _her_ fantasy.

Not-real-Lucifer nips and kisses up her stomach, his (her) hands cupping her breasts. He _loves_ her breasts, she knows he does: after all, he was never shy in telling her. She figures he would lose himself in them, kissing the hollow space in between, nuzzling along the underside, then finally suckling at her nipples and moaning from it exactly as he’s doing in reality, just as loud as she needs him to be for this to work.

Chloe uses her fingers to simulate his teeth, circling then pinching in a mockery of a bite he'd quickly soothe the sting of. She’s ridiculously wet from it, aching to be filled, but she tortures herself, her hips undulating uselessly into empty air. She throws her head back and moans, squeezing her breasts together, grinding against the imaginary weight of Lucifer’s body on top of hers, of his erection rubbing against her core.

“_Lucifer,_” she allows herself to whimper, one hand around her throat to imitate the presence of his face there, tucked in the crook of her neck to kiss it sweetly.

“What do you desire?” he would ask her then, for once giving in to the stereotype of the Devil whispering temptation in the ears of humans, since he's unable to find the answer in her eyes. “You,” she would reply, not even sure of what she means, but confident he'll figure it out regardless.

His (her) middle finger presses into her then, slowly, deliberately, so she can feel the pressure building within. The heel of his (her) palm bears down on her clit to add to the sensation, massaging it in time with the deep, rocking thrusts of the digit inside. Chloe brings her free hand to her lips and sucks two fingers in her mouth – Lucifer kissing her, his tongue around hers as he fucks her with his hand oh-so-sweetly, rubbing himself against the curve of her hip.

She falters for a moment, feeling ridiculous as she pictures herself from the outside, but then Lucifer’s moans increase in volume and intensity, encouraging her. She hastily pushes a second finger in, whining around the ones in her mouth, and distantly wonders if she’s being loud enough for him to hear her too.

The thrill of it is almost enough to make her come, but not quite.

*

She said his name. He heard it. Heard _her_.

Which means she can hear him, too. Which means she’s doing what she’s doing because _he_ is.

It wasn’t just a game to drive him mad, or maybe it was, but she _wants_ him. Not completely, not exactly for who he is, but in Lucifer’s lust-fogged mind this is enough. Chloe touching herself because of him is enough, is _everything_.

Pride flies out the window, then: he won’t force himself to be quiet. She might have won her little game, but she just surrendered, too. They both lost, victims of each other’s cruelty, two helpless puppets writhing on soft sheets to the pull of each other’s strings.

Lucifer’s free hand shoots up above his head, palm flat against the headboard in an attempt to feel her proximity. In his mind, Chloe’s mouth has left him before he could get too close and now she’s sinking on him, head thrown back in ecstasy as he fills her, burying himself in her heat. Lucifer strokes himself slowly but with a tight grip, mirroring the excruciatingly languid movement of her hips and the relentless clenching of her inner muscles around him.

“_Yes,_” he breathes shakily, but hoping to be heard: there won’t be consequences from this, he’s almost sure of it; they are professional actors at this point. Neither of them will say anything in the morning, because there is nothing to say, but with this wall between them, although clearly too thin, their own walls can stay firmly in place. It will be fine. Let’s have this, if nothing else.

He picks up the pace, arching his hips into his grip, helping imaginary Chloe to ride him into the mattress, her hands flat against his chest for leverage, her breasts moving hypnotically above him. In the fantasy, he grabs her by the hair to pull her down and crush their lips together in a bruising kiss, all tongues and teeth and desperation as they pant in each other’s mouths, hungry for each other like two starving animals.

“Oh, _fuck_,” he hears from the other side of the wall, the curse so unlike her that he has to grip the base of his cock not to come, breathing harshly through his nose. He stays quiet and still then, listening, but now that Chloe is not speaking, he can’t really hear anything.

So Lucifer scoots up, sits against the headboard and presses his ear against the wall, a desperate voyeur who isn’t even allowed the gift of actually watching, a peeping Tom without a hole to peep through. And now, he does hear her. Soft, whimpering sounds echo through the thin barrier separating them, not scattered but coming out at regular intervals, with a precise, almost musical cadence: if Chloe was teasing herself before, she isn’t now. She must have her fingers inside herself, pressing deep. _How many?_ he wonders. _How many do you need to pretend it’s me?_

He doesn’t need his fantasy now, not anymore. He starts stroking himself again in time with her noises, getting off on her pleasure, because it’s _real_, unfolding so close to where he is. What is she imagining? What does she desire from him? His fingers? His mouth? His cock? Not knowing makes his head spin from the possibilities.

He can hear her getting closer, so attuned to a woman’s pleasure that he's able to tell even like this. So he speeds up, kneeling on the pillows to keep his ear firmly pressed against the wall, and then he dares.

“Come, Chloe. Let me hear you, _please_.”

Chloe chokes on a moan, surprised. Suddenly, there is silence between them, and Lucifer fears he’s made a mistake in breaking the pretense. Chloe is breathing softly now, trying to hide her pleasure from him even though it’s too late.

And so, he waits.

*

“_Yes,_” Chloe hears Lucifer moan, her movements stilling at his tone, at the roughness of his voice. He’s so wrecked for her she can barely stand it.

He would say exactly that, she imagines, while pushing into her after having stretched her open with his fingers, and just like that the fantasy shifts again: he’s inside her now, fucking her into the mattress. To make it more believable, Chloe adds a third digit, clenching around the delicious stretch, letting out an undignified curse. Her thumb rubs against her clit like Lucifer’s abdomen would, his thrusts deep and grinding, lingering inside her before retreating.

In the back of her mind, she realizes he stopped making noises from beyond the wall, but she’s too far gone to wonder why. Did he come and she missed it? Did he stop out of embarrassment because he realized they are almost certainly hearing each other? Was her curse too much? It doesn’t matter: she can get there on her own.

Imaginary Lucifer pins her wrists on either side of her head and angles his hips just right, groaning in her ear, chuckling low in his throat at the sounds she’s making. Chloe has her legs wrapped around him, encouraging him, arching her chest against him until he takes the hint and bends to suck one nipple in his mouth again, holding her breast up with one hand and squeezing at it, giving her what she wants when and how she wants it.

Choe is close, _so_ close, and then-

“Come, Chloe. Let me hear you, _please_.”

She chokes, one hand faltering around her breast, the other stopping between her legs. Of course she knew they were both aware of what was happening, but for him to _acknowledge_ it? Despite his confidence in all things sexual, she didn’t think he had it in him. After all, he’s the one with a girlfriend, although he also welcomes other people in his bed. But somehow, Chloe knows she wouldn’t be among them, not with Eve's approval.

The nerve he has. Again. Why does he have to _complicate_ things? Why can’t he let them have _this_, at least?

But then, anger gives way to something else. Longing. Longing to give him what he asked, to give him _something_, because they both know she’s not ready to give him more than this, not yet. But this, she can do. After everything, it’s the least she can do.

“Oh, Lucifer,” she sighs, sitting up so her face is closer to the wall, awkwardly keeping her hand inside her until she finds a comfortable position to keep going.

“I'm here," she hears, so close, so damn close but so damn far. “I'm here, love.”

There’s a moment in which she’s the only one making sounds as she resumes, but then he joins her, and Chloe can tell for a fact they are exactly in the same position now, their faces separated by the wall. Without it, they would be breathing each other’s air. Without it, they would see with their own eyes what they have reduced each other to.

But it’s better this way. Easier.

“You- you really had to get naked, didn’t you?” she pants, kneeling on the pillows to bear down on her own fingers. “You just couldn’t help yourself.”

Lucifer laughs, but it’s choked off, cut short by a groan. “It was for the _case_, Detective. And look who's talking. You knew exactly what you would do to me. Are you happy now?”

_Detective_, is it? Of course, he needs to cling to something safer to do this, to actually talk her through it. Fine then, but this means she’s allowed to do the same, using bravado to cover how raw and exposed and vulnerable this is making her feel, even more than being naked in front of him and all those people.

“Yes, I am. Serves you well. I had to t-teach you a lesson.”

“Mm, yes, I've learned _plenty_ today. Bloody _hell_, Detective.”

She doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t say anything else. They climb toward the peak together, feeding on each other’s noises – what a ridiculous image they must make, what a sad picture of missed opportunities.

Reality is so much different than fantasy, so terribly inadequate and pathetic: two people frantically masturbating to thoughts of each other when all they would need to do is open a freaking door and meet on either side of this wall. Chloe is on the edge but can’t fall, can’t bring herself to do it now that the only Lucifer she can cling to is the real one, the one who will sink into someone else’s arms tomorrow, his body untouchable, unreachable except for the stolen, unwanted luxury of _looking_ at it.

“Lucifer,” she whimpers, unable to be smug any longer, “I- I can’t. This is wrong, it’s all wrong, I-"

“It’s okay," Lucifer cooes, standing on the precipice with her, holding back _for_ her, “It’s alright, darling. It’s me. It’s just me. Please, Chloe,” he slips up, “please, for me. Do it for me.”

“Tell me what you were imagining,” she orders in a haste, her hand pumping inside her at a pace that is almost cruel now. “Tell me everything, Lucifer.”

Lucifer groans, then mutters something that suspiciously sounds like “Shit", but she needs this from him, she doesn’t mean to shame him. She will take it to her grave, but she _needs_ it.

“I touched myself in the shower first,” he starts, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone, smooth like silk, heated like the fire of his eyes. “I came to the thought of eating you out right there and then, of making you come with my mouth.”

Chloe nods frantically, the image a blessing, salvation suddenly in sight. “And- and after?”

She can practically sense Lucifer hesitate, maybe trying to hold back from revealing something too risky, something that exposes him.

“Your- _your_ mouth, on _me_,” he stutters, and it’s so fitting that he had no problem telling her what he would do to _her_, but shied away from saying what _he_ would want in return. “You – _fuck_, Chloe – you loving it, craving it, taking your time with it to make me fall apart.”

She almost tells him that she would, because oh, she so would, but all she can do is moan at the thought, then suck at her fingers again to imagine it – kneeling between his legs as he plays his beloved piano, a little silly game between lovers to see if he can manage to finish the song before she wrecks him; having him tied up to his headboard to torture him, setting the pace of it, holding his hips down with her arm; or maybe _being_ tied up to his headboard instead, helpless, open to him in every way, writhing and scrambling on the sheets as he takes whatever he wants from her, cradling her face in his hands to soothe the roughness and the ache in her jaw.

Thankfully, Lucifer doesn’t need her to ask for more: he just gives it, finally going in for the kill.

“And then you on top of me, riding me, pinning me to the bed, using me as you wish," he says in a rush, almost there, almost _there_\- “Oh, _Chloe_.”

The desperation she hears through her name makes her snap. Chloe comes around her fingers, slipping her hand out of her mouth to slam a fist against the wall, riding the other as she moans for him with her head thrown back, shamelessly, emboldened by the fact that he can’t see her. Lucifer is coming, too, the vibrations of his voice so intense under her clenched fist that it feels like he’s right there in the room with her.

He must look so gorgeous, with his hair curling from the shower, his muscles seizing up, his arm flexing deliciously between his legs, his chest rising and falling as he pants, his jaw slack from the pleasure. It helps Chloe prolong her orgasm as much as she can, until she’s spent, hurting from it, from how long it took her to get here. She clenches around nothing as she pulls her sticky fingers out, wincing in discomfort, then rests her temple against the wall, breathing harshly, slowly coming back to reality.

They are so fucked.

She listens to Lucifer breathing. He does the same. Until one of them speaks, they can float in this limbo where they didn’t completely ruin whatever is left between them with awkwardness and shame.

Then, “Goodnight, Detective,” Lucifer whispers in the quiet. After all, there isn’t much else to say.

“Goodnight, Lucifer,” Chloe replies, closing her eyes to keep the tears from falling.

Yet she stays there, unable to scoot down the bed and try to sleep, her palm once again flat against the wall as she imagines his own on the other side.

For a while, she could swear she still hears Lucifer breathing, a twisted reflection in a mirror they broke.


End file.
